


Warm Bodies

by arcadian_dream



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Frottage, Hurt/Comfort, Incest, Infidelity, M/M, Somnophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-18
Updated: 2011-04-18
Packaged: 2017-10-18 07:42:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/186542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arcadian_dream/pseuds/arcadian_dream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While recovering from the last full moon, Bill wakes to find a visitor in his bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Warm Bodies

Warmth. Warmth wakes Bill. It tugs at him, his sleeping consciousness; comforting tendrils of heat radiating from the space beside him, curling around his arms, his legs, his torso. Warm. Familiar.

His body still aching with the furious exertion of the most recent transformation, Bill rolls onto his side, seeking the source of the heat. Pain claws momentarily at Bill's muscles and he winces. Sharply drawn breath, wide eyes; and Bill sees, for the first time since waking, the body beside him.

Warm.

Familiar.

“Charlie,” he mouths.

Bill inches across the bed, eradicating the space between him and his brother. He closes his eyes, and allows the heat to envelop him; heady, glorious. Watching Charlie's back rise and fall with each breath that he takes, Bill luxuriates in his presence; in the quiet strength of him.

Soon, Bill's gaze falls to the intricate markings that adorn Charlie's shoulders: he follows the lines, the contrasts and curves of them and, in the silence of the morning, he gently presses his fingertips to Charlie's skin, tracing the shapes.

 _Merlin_ , Bill thinks as Charlie's flesh sinks beneath his touch, accommodating him, _Merlin, I've missed this._

Closing his eyes, Bill runs his fingers over the toned musculature of Charlie's body; over his broad, flat shoulders and along the dip of his spine to the soft curve of his lower back. His fingers catching on the waistband of Charlie's underpants, Bill stalls, before lifting his hand to his mouth and wetting his finger.

Slipping his hand between his own body and Charlie's once more, Bill runs his finger between Charlie's buttocks.

As he does, Charlie stirs beside him, but does not wake. A moan – brief, and stumbling, like one stepping out of the darkness and into the light – escapes his lips, and his breathing resumes its steady rhythm.

Bill's breathing, meanwhile, hitches in his throat. His fingers seek out the puckered skin of Charlie's arsehole as surreptitiously as he is able; he licks his lips in anticipation when Charlie shifts again – this time, against Bill, moving into his touch.

“What're you doing back there, mate?” Charlie mumbles into his pillow.

Bill starts. “What?”

“I said, what are you doing back there?”

“I could ask the same of you,” Bill says.

Charlie pauses, before speaking: … “not really, mate. I'm not the one with a finger in your -”

“I _meant_ ,” Bill interjects, “I meant, I could ask you what it is that you're doing here. In my – in my bed.”

Charlie shrugs, nonchalant. “A favour. For Fleur.”

At the mention of Fleur's name, Bill stills. He swallows, but his throat feels constricted.

“Fleur?” Bill says quietly, his voice hoarse.

“Yeah,” Charlie answers. “The last transformation scared her. Took it out of her a bit. She's at Mum and Dad's. Thought I'd give her the day off and look after my big brother.”

Charlie's words tumbling over him, Bill guiltily withdraws his hand from where it rests between Charlie's buttocks or, rather, he tries to, but when he does, Charlie grips his wrist.

“Don't,” he says, and Bill swears that even from behind him, he can see Charlie's features stretch into a smile.

“Don't?” Bill echoes.

Still gripping Bill's wrist, nods his head against his pillow. Groaning, he rolls over, turning to face Bill.

“Don't,” he says again. Charlie raises Bill's hand to his lips and, taking each of his fingers into his mouth one-by-one he sucks on them.

“Christ,” Bill says hoarsely as Charlie's tongue works its way towards the pale, tender skin of his wrist, which soon receives the same attention as his fingers; attention which causes his stomach to flip, and his cock to twitch where it lies against the inside of his thigh. Warm. Familiar.

“How's that?” Charlie says, running his tongue along the inside of Bill's forearm. “Feeling any better?”

Bill can almost _hear_ the smirk in his brother's voice; the satisfaction that his breathless squirming engenders, and cannot help but be delighted by it; excited. He loves that his moans please Charlie; that his own arousal begets Charlie's, regardless of the guilt that resides in the cloudy crevices of Bill's mind.

Swatting aside his misgivings – rights, wrongs, shoulds, and should nots – Bill murmurs his assent: _“Yes,”_ he whispers, _“yes.”_

“Good,” Charlie says. Releasing his grip on Bill's wrist, his hand disappears beneath the covers. Fingertips glance the tented fabric of Bill's pants, pulled taut over Bill's now-throbbing cock.

“Good,” Charlie repeats, rubbing his palm against the protuberance. “Now let's see what we can do about this.” He rolls toward Bill, positioning himself above his brother. Still massaging Bill's cock, Charlie carefully hooks his free arm beneath Bill's leg and presses it up toward his chest thereby creating a space for himself between Bill's thighs.

“Alright?” Charlie asks as he fumbles with the waistband of Bill's underpants.

Bill nods. “Yeah,” he says. “Alright.”

Charlie smiles as he manages to tug Bill's pants down over his hips, freeing his cock; long and thick, the head bulbous and plush and glistening with pre-ejaculate.

“Oof,” Charlie whispers in approval. Licking his lips, he lowers his head and swirls his tongue around the tip of Bill's cock.

“Fuck,” Bill hisses, writhing underneath Charlie. “I'd forgotten how good you -” Bill hesitates, his breath catching in his throat as Charlie wraps his lips around the head and sucks -

“- forgotten how good you were,” he resumes, “how good it feels. _Fuck._ ”

Charlie makes some sort of reply, but Bill doesn't catch it: it is a mumble, words lost on Charlie's tongue; lost, in the swathe of saliva and sweat that coats cock and lips and tongue, uttered only in the silent undulation of flesh against flesh.

As Charlie draws him toward climax, Bill's breath shortens; his hips roll, sporadic and searching into and against Charlie's mouth and he is close now, _so_ close, and then -

“Fuck,” Bill spits as the enveloping warmth of Charlie's mouth leaves him; cold, and bereft, and thrusting hopelessly against the air. He cranes his head, squashing his chin to his chest in the process.

Before he is able to ascertain what it is that is happening, the warmth returns as Charlie eases himself down against Bill. Spitting into his palm, Charlie slips his hand between them. Taking their cocks into his broad, flat hands as best as he can, he runs his palm over and around the both of them with increasing speed until they come; all stiffening limbs and stilted gasps, semen spilling over Charlie's fingers and onto Bill's belly in a pool of pearlescent white.

Warm.

Familiar.

Missed.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Bill Ficathon 2011.


End file.
